


take it on the chin

by youcouldmakealife



Series: in taking it apart [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike’s not a fucking moron. He knew it was going to come, and it came.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take it on the chin

**Author's Note:**

> We're getting close to wrapping up! One more part following this.
> 
> Thanks to Clo, especially for hosting my sorry ass for a week.

For twenty-nine teams, locker clean out is the most depressing day of the year. It’s an admission of a season’s failure, an acknowledgement that the roster isn’t going to be the same the next time you enter the room. That you may not be on it. 

Mike’s got his contract through another year, but he has no illusions about after that. He’s slowing down, he’s staying hurt longer, taking every blow harder. He’s going to go down one day and he isn’t going to come back from it. 

But in the meantime he’s just going to empty his locker, pack up the house for the summer. Go home, see his mom, his brother. There’s fishing, golfing, boating. There’s training. There’s a whole other life off the ice. It’ll be like every other offseason he’s had.

Liam appears behind him when Mike’s through a couple brusque soundbites, gives a few of his own before he gives Mike a meaningful look. What that meaningful look is actually supposed to _mean_ Mike doesn’t know, but he follows Liam out to the parking garage, throws his bag into the bed of his trunk and just resignedly accepts it when Liam throws his in as well.

“Can I come over?” Liam asks, once he’s already buckling up in the passenger seat.

Canadian manners are really fucking overrated.

Mike wasn’t expecting anything else, so he drives them back to his place, Liam practically nipping at his heels on the way in.

“So,” Liam says once Mike’s in the kitchen, rustling up something for them to eat. “End of season.”

“Yep,” Mike says.

“You’ve probably done this a lot,” Liam says.

Mike eyes him. “Yep,” he repeats.

“It’s kind of the first time for me,” Liam manages.

Mike hopes his eyebrows convey the _no shit?_ he means all the way into his soul.

Liam fidgets, and Mike starts to assemble sandwiches, because clearly it’s going to take the kid awhile to figure out what the fuck he’s trying to say.

“What do you usually do during the summer?” Liam blurts while Mike’s slicing the tomatoes.

Mike doesn’t pause. “Go home. See my family. Train, fish, swim. Read.”

“All at home?” Liam prods.

“Yep,” Mike asks, and adds mayo to Liam’s, hands him it.

Liam looks tragically at his sandwich.

Mike focuses on applying mustard to his own sandwich because Liam’s expression is sort of depressing him.

*

Mike doesn’t leave for a couple days, has to arrange details: remind his neighbor to take his mail in, make sure his place outside of Duluth is cleaned and stocked, pack up the shit he’s going to need for the next few months. 

Liam presumably has the same amount of preparations, hell, has more, considering he’s got to move all his shit out of Rogers’ in preparation for living on his own next season (Mike has ignored any mention Liam makes of that fact through pure stubbornness, because again, not a lunatic), but you wouldn’t know that from the amount of time he spends at Mike’s place getting underfoot.

The night before Mike leaves for the pain in the ass trip back home, a series of planes, trains and automobiles, Liam’s even more underfoot than usual, which says something. It’s a good fucking thing that Mike’s had practice preparing for the offseason.

They take it slow that night, Mike bringing Liam off fast and easy with his mouth so that he doesn’t bitch Mike out for the pace he sets after, a slow grind into him, Liam’s cock rubbing sticky between their bellies, Mike’s face in Liam’s neck.

Liam’s more asleep than awake in the shower, so Mike practically holds him up under the spray, and they’re still wet when they get under the sheets, Liam tucking himself around Mike’s body, asleep within a minute, tops.

Mike’s awake for awhile.

*

Home is home. His mom makes him food despite his protestations that he actually hired a food service, his brother goes fishing with him on the first clear, warm day: the fish don’t bite and his mom’s never actually been much of a cook, but it’s home.

Within the first few days he starts getting text updates from guys who’ve clearly stuck the team on a filter or something. Rogers is running through wedding preparations and panicking at anyone who’ll listen, the poor fuck. Other guys have started texting their best miles and their golf scores. Liam texts him over nothing at all, just filling the space between them with words that don’t mean much. Mike responds sometimes, but making conversation just to make conversation isn’t in his nature, and right now there’s nothing he can say to Liam that wouldn’t make him or the kid miserable. 

*

Mike isn’t sulking, but if you listen to his brother he’s brooding like he’s in a Bronte novel (his brother used Twilight as the example but Mike’s not fucking going there), so two weeks into the offseason he gets dragged out for drinks.

It’s the old crowd, the friends he’s had since he was a kid, or at least the ones who aren’t stuck at home with their kids, unable to find babysitters. An ex of his is there. She stays close enough in his orbit that he knows he could fuck her tonight, if he tried, but he doesn’t, just lets his brother feed him drinks and try to get him to laugh, is surrounded a whole passel of people reminding him that he’s home again.

The next morning Mike has no memory of getting home, and, far more soberingly, an outgoing call to Liam at two in the morning that lasted just over seventeen minutes. He hopes, dimly, that he’d waxed poetic about Liam’s ass and hadn’t told Liam about his idle searches of how long it would take to drive to Halifax (thirty hours), or whether there was any flight there that didn’t take absurd, ridiculous routes (no).

Liam calls him two days later, chatters about his training without saying anything about the call, and Mike can only hope that’s a good sign. 

*

Mike keeps in touch with Liam as much as he does with anyone else, and Liam sends him a stream of texts to update him on the exciting news from Halifax, if that’s actually a thing, but Mike’s got his fishing, his boating, his training, and it falls by the wayside, a little. He texts back, once in awhile, but there isn’t much to say, he isn’t doing much that’s interesting to anyone but him, and unlike the kid, he doesn’t feel the need to submit others to the boring details.

Liam’s updates become a little more sporadic, the kid’s attention span as short as it is initially devoted, and by August they’ve petered off. He’s still alive--grinning stupid in pictures from Rogers’ wedding that are emailed to them en masse. He looks bigger than he did before summer started, broader, like the training’s paying off and also maybe like he’s had one last growth spurt. He’s tanned and gorgeous, the line of his throat where his tie’s been loosened, his arms where his sleeves got rolled up by the end of the night.

Eventually Mike realizes he’s been mooning over Rogers’ fucking wedding pictures for a pathetically long time, and closes the email, sends Liam a quick text to tell him that training’s clearly paying off, and goes out for a jog. When he gets back, he’s got a message from Liam, just ‘thnx!’ and nothing else.

He doesn’t think about it.

*

By the time training camp swings around, Mike’s gotten three more messages from Liam. He’s received more from Rogers, who was on his _honeymoon_ for part of it. Mike’s not a fucking moron. He knew it was going to come, and it came. Liam’s nineteen (a whole year older now, what a difference), and summer’s probably an eternity in his mind. Fuck, Mike’s impressed that Liam remembered he existed after he left the country; he’s heard that infants lack object permanence.

He knew it was going to come, and he was right, and it’s fine. It’ll be awkward, but Liam’s a fucking ray of sunshine who’ll barrel through the awkwardness and probably force Mike to be normal with him, and it’ll blow over. 

It’s fine.

*

Mike gets back to Edmonton with a couple days to spare before training camp, spends them unpacking and hitting the gym a few extra times so that the young guns don’t actually lap him. The first day is like the first day of school, everyone hugging and backslapping and Mike staying the fuck out of it, saying hello to anyone who greets him, keeping to his own business. He doesn’t look for Liam in the crowd. Liam’s small, it’s easy to miss him among a bunch of guys a head taller.

There’s free skate for a half-hour before they get into anything specific, Mulligan seemingly in a good mood, which would usually make them all suspicious, but maybe not having to deal with the lot of them makes him more cheerful.

Mike does a few slow laps, gets his sea legs. The first view of Liam he gets is him all flailing hands and wild expressions, because of course it is, Morris looking on tolerantly, as only someone used to him can.

When Mike skates past, Liam stops mid-sentence, going red and ducking his head, which is definitely _not_ characteristic of him. Mike swallows, does another lap, finds Rogers leaning against the boards with Jacobi.

“Fuck off, Jacobi,” Mike says, and Jacobi rolls his eyes but skates away.

 

“What’s his name?” Mike asks, not looking at Rogers.

Rogers is quiet for a minute. “Jonathan,” he says finally.

“He a hockey player?” Mike asks.

“No,” Rogers says. “And he’s actually Fitzy’s age.”

Mike’s jaw sets. “Good,” he says.

“Mike--” Rogers starts.

Mike skates off. 

*

In one of the drills Mike gets put on Liam’s wing. Liam keeps his eyes forward, his ears pink, his jaw set.

“I won’t make this awkward if you don’t,” Mike says, low.

Liam looks over.

“We’re on a team, kid,” Mike says. “You want to insist you’re an adult, fucking act like one.”

“Okay,” Liam says quietly.

“Okay,” Mike says, claps Liam on the shoulder.

They’re not particularly good, but at least Liam’s able to make eye-contact long enough to make passes.

*

Training camp is a brutal regimen for everyone, but the older you are, the worse it makes you feel. Mike doesn’t have the leeway to have a drink, to sulk with some Ben & Jerry’s, to go out and find someone to put his dick in. He’s got to be up by six, he has to keep up with kids who are half his age. He doesn’t have time to feel sorry for himself. The full extent of dwelling on it he allows himself is two extra minutes in the shower the next morning, glaring at the tile opposite, wet and miserable, before he bucks up. 

It’s not like he’s broken hearted. Shit happened, and then shit stopped happening. Story of his life.

The week is long, and the week is miserable, and that would have been the same whether or not Liam was taking over half his bed, so it’s pretty much irrelevant.

*

At the end of camp, everyone goes out to celebrate their continued existence, goes out to drink themselves into a stupor that even the aches and pains of camp can’t rob from them. It happens every year, and this year is no exception. They take over the usual place, and Mike sticks to beer, along with a few of the guys who have to actually go home that night, but the vast majority of the team doesn’t.

Liam’s involved in some complicated drinking game with the other kids that seems to involve shots and slapping. Mike isn’t sure it’s a game that can actually be won, and judging by the amount of drinking going on, everyone’s losing.

Half an hour in, Liam starts peeking up at him. He probably thinks he’s subtle, but since he continues to be as subtle as a slapshot, and Mike may or may not be keeping an eye on the game, it’s embarrassingly obvious. 

An hour in, Liam comes to sit beside him, and Mike takes a sip of his beer, keeps his eyes forward. 

“Are you seriously on your first beer?” Liam asks incredulously.

“Second,” Mike says.

“I think I might be drunk,” Liam says.

“You don’t say,” Mike says, looks over, where Liam is flushed, mussed. Painfully pretty, though he’d be indignant if anyone ever called him pretty to his face.

“Can you give me a ride home?” Liam asks.

Mike keeps his eyes on him, waits until Liam’s eyes drop. “Kid--” he starts.

“Please?” Liam asks.

“Go wait outside,” Mike says. “I have to settle my bill.”

Deja fucking vu. 

*

Mike doesn’t see Liam outside the bar when he leaves, and hopes, for a minute, that at least one of them has kept their fucking senses, but when he gets to his truck, Liam’s leaning against the door.

Mike doesn’t say a word, just climbs in, lets Liam direct him to his place. It’s sweet looking, on a quiet street. There’s no way in hell Liam found it without help. 

“There you go,” Mike says, pulling to a stop outside Liam’s door.

“Come in?” Liam asks.

Mike closes his eyes. “Please don’t do this,” he says, finally.

When he opens his eyes, Liam’s looking at him, wide blue eyes, lip between his teeth. “Come in,” Liam says, and Mike follows him inside.

*

Liam’s place is the sort of thing typical to young hockey players everywhere--big, masculine furniture, a TV everywhere a TV may be needed and places they definitely aren’t, a tangle of cords leading to consoles and controllers. Pretty much nothing else.

Mike doesn’t pay much attention to it, doesn’t have time to, because Liam drops any sort of pretense once they’re inside, reaches for Mike. His mouth is bitter with vodka, stinging. Mike’s entire tour of the house is taken it quick glances while they’re stumbling in the direction that Mike presumes leads to his bedroom, Liam still stubbornly trying to ignore the fact that kissing and stripping are mutually exclusive activities.

They manage well enough despite that, well enough that Liam’s naked by the time they hit the bed. Mike just has to fight with his jeans while Liam grabs lube from the bedside table, a condom from his discarded pants. Like he fucking planned this. 

Mike’s perfunctory with the prep, just enough that Liam won’t get hurt, on his back while Mike watches his fingers slide in, easy, Liam as greedy for it as always. 

“Hands and knees,” Mike says, when he’s rolling the condom on himself.

“Mike,” Liam says.

Mike doesn’t say anything, just waits, and after a second, Liam rolls onto his stomach.

Mike tugs him up, curls a hand around his hip, guides himself in. Waits for Liam to adjust, just enough. Presses his face against the muscled line of Liam’s back, and then fucks into him, nothing nice about it, just hard and fast and brutal, chasing his own pleasure, the kind of treatment Liam always asked for but never really got, Mike too cautious with him.

Right now Mike doesn’t give a fuck. Liam’s making noise, breathy, enough to know he’s enjoying himself. He always does, you get a cock in him and he’ll do fucking anything. Mike wonders if he’s the same way with his boyfriend. Probably.

When Mike gets close he gets his hand around Liam’s cock, jerks him hard and fast until he’s coming against his sheets, Mike’s hand, and Mike can close his eyes and lose himself just for the length of time it takes to come in Liam, balls deep, mouth open against Liam’s shoulderblade.

He pulls out as soon as he’s finished, gets rid of the condom, gives himself a minute, he’ll catch his breath before he goes, that’s all he needs.

Liam rolls onto his back, stomach streaked with semen, mouth bitten red, flushed and sweaty and gorgeous as always. Familiar.

Mike rests his elbows on his knees, tries to remember where he shucked his shirt. Hallway after the living room, he thinks.

Liam reaches out, fingers brushing Mike’s hip. “Come here,” he says, quiet.

“You want to cuddle, you save it for your fucking boyfriend, Fitzgerald,” Mike says.

Liam pulls his hand back like he’s been burned. “What--” he starts, then, resigned, “Roge.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, stands, grabbing his jeans, pulling them on, rough.

“You didn’t even _want_ to be my boyfriend,” Liam says, indignant, sitting up.

“You’re right,” Mike says. “Congratulations, that finally sunk into your skull. Do you want a prize?”

Liam doesn’t answer, and Mike takes that as his cue to go, stops in the hallway to pick up his shirt.

Mike’s managed to get one shoe on when Liam comes into the hall. He half considers legging it without one just so he doesn’t have to deal with whatever fucking drivel is going to come out of Liam’s mouth.

“Why are you mad at me about this?” Liam asks. “You don’t want to be my boyfriend, congratulations, I found some idiot who would take me and you still get to fuck me. How is this not fucking perfect?”

“He know that’s what he agreed to?” Mike asks.

Silence is a pretty telling answer.

“I’m not interested in being your dirty little secret,” Mike asks. “Go find someone else to fuck behind his back.”

Mike finally gets his other shoe on, gets to his truck without Liam running after him like some overwrought hero, which is a plus. His door sticks when he tries to get it open, and he punches it twice, tries again. Metal’s more unforgiving than anything he punches for a living, and his hand throbs as he shoves the key into the ignition.

He’s pulling out of park when his phone buzzes against his hip, and he pulls it out.

There’s a text from Liam, apparently pulling the technology age equivalent of running across the moors. _im in love w u_ it says, and Mike rests his head against his steering wheel, exhales.

 _you’re really not_ he sends back, and drives his sorry ass home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thought you'd escaped the tumblr mention, did you? I'm still [here](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
